Chapter 31: Ash on Silk
Morning light spilled crookedly into my chambers, the kind that doesn't quite warm anything. It slid across the floorboards in thin bars, cutting through the pale smoke from the brazier. The fire had almost gone out, leaving only the bitter smell of half-burnt charcoal. Jiu'er was asleep against the wall, her head tipped back at an awkward angle. A strand of her hair had come loose and stuck to her cheek. I almost reached out to move it but stopped. She looked so tired. I didn't want her to wake just yet.
I shifted, pulling the shawl tighter around my shoulders, but the chill clung stubbornly. My lantern stood on the table, the indigo silk stretched taut, the embroidery halfway done. The bamboo stalk curved across it like a brushstroke—imperfect, uneven, alive. One line had frayed where the needle had snagged. I left it. Mistakes sometimes carried more truth than perfection.
Outside, I heard the sound of a bell. Not the clear temple bell. This one was duller, struck by hurried hands. Kitchen signal. Morning porridge. My stomach growled, though I didn't move. Eating before the festival felt like an indulgence. Besides, food in my mouth would taste like ash anyway.
---
The corridors were louder than usual once I stepped outside. Voices overlapped—maids calling for scissors, boys rushing with bundles of kindling, a steward shouting about missing tassels. I walked slower than I needed to, letting their noise wash over me. It was almost a relief, all this frantic movement, as if everyone else's chaos could cover the stillness inside me.
On the way to the Hall, I passed a group of servants polishing lantern frames. Their hands were raw from the cold, knuckles cracked and reddened. One of them muttered about the lacquer not drying fast enough. Another cursed softly when a brush slipped, leaving a streak across the gold paint. They froze when they saw me, then bowed too quickly, the spilled lacquer glistening on the snow.
"Don't scrape it off," I said before I could stop myself. My voice came out softer than I intended. "Leave it until it dries. You'll only smear it worse."
They stared at me, surprised, but nodded. I walked on.
---
Inside the Hall of Painted Clouds, the air was heavy with paste and dye. Rows of lanterns hung unfinished, some glowing faintly as attendants tested candles inside. And there it was again: Meiyan's phoenix. Larger than yesterday. The feathers now layered in three shades of gold, each line so precise it hurt to look at. She stood nearby, sleeves trailing, speaking in that quiet but sharp tone she used when she wanted everyone to hear without raising her voice.
"…balance the tassels or it will tilt during the procession. If it tilts, it looks foolish. And I don't allow foolishness."
Her gaze brushed me, briefly. Just enough to sting. I didn't look back. Instead, I sat at my place and began stitching. Needle in. Needle out. White thread crossing indigo. A rhythm, but not a steady one. My hands shook once, and the line wavered. I pressed it flat, left it as it was.
An attendant leaned close, whispering, "Princess… would you like me to redo—"
"No." The word came sharper than I meant. I exhaled. "No. It stays."
She blinked, swallowed whatever else she was going to say, and stepped back.
---
At midday, the hall grew stifling. Too many bodies, too much silk, the smell of glue thick in my nose. I excused myself again, claiming I needed water. Outside, the cold struck like a blade. I welcomed it.
The gardens were quieter today. Snow clung stubbornly to the pines, though patches of earth showed where servants had shoveled paths. I walked aimlessly until my feet carried me to the koi pond. The water was half-frozen, a thin sheet of ice stretched like glass over the surface. Beneath it, sluggish red shapes moved slowly, trapped but not trapped.
I crouched down, my breath fogging the ice. One fish lifted its mouth against the frozen surface, opening and closing as if it were speaking. I almost laughed. Then I thought—if I broke the ice, they would be free to breathe easier. But if I broke it, they might die from the shock of cold.
So I did nothing. Just watched. My knees grew numb against the stone.
A voice startled me. "You always look as though you're about to do something reckless."
I turned. Yulan stood there again, her robe pale lavender, a smear of snow on her hem. She didn't look amused.
"Reckless?" I repeated. My throat was dry. "I am sitting by a pond."
"Exactly." She stepped closer, her shoes crunching lightly. "Sitting. Watching fish as if the world isn't sharpening its teeth."
I didn't answer. My fingers itched to touch the ice, but I tucked them into my sleeves.
She sighed. "Meiyan grows stronger every hour. You know this. Yet you sit."
"I am not blind," I said finally. The words sounded heavy, even to me. "I am… waiting."
"For what?"
I had no answer. Or maybe too many. I looked back at the fish. They mouthed the silence for me.
---
When I returned to the Hall, Meiyan's laughter carried across the space like perfume—sweet, deliberate, cloying. A group of attendants clustered around her lantern, nodding, praising, fussing. She had turned creation into spectacle. I stitched slower, quieter, each pull of the needle deliberate. Let her shine like fire. I would be frost. Frost lasts longer than flame.
By the time evening came, my lantern was nearly whole. The bamboo curved under invisible snow, the stitches uneven but strong. I leaned back, rubbed my aching fingers. My head throbbed with the sound of needles clicking and scissors snapping.
"Princess," Jiu'er murmured behind me. She had been waiting all day, hovering at the edges, her worry like a shadow. "You should rest. Eat something."
I wanted to argue. Instead, I said, "Bring me tea."
When she left, I let my forehead fall against the table, just for a moment. The wood smelled faintly of lacquer, of smoke, of hands that weren't mine. My breath fogged the silk lantern as if it were alive, breathing with me.
---
That night, I couldn't sleep. I paced the balcony, the snow crunching under my slippers, the sky dark and empty. Somewhere in the distance, laughter rose again. Meiyan's wing, no doubt. The sound gnawed at me. I gripped the railing hard enough for my knuckles to ache.
The brazier inside spat sparks. Jiu'er stirred in her sleep but didn't wake. I considered waking her, just to not be alone. I didn't.
Instead, I whispered to the snow: "Let her stumble. Just once. That's all I need."
The words vanished into the cold.
---
Morning came gray, heavy. Festival day minus one. My body ached from restless sleep, my mind heavier still. I drank the tea Jiu'er pressed into my hands, though I barely tasted it.
When I entered the Hall, attendants were already stringing lanterns on poles, testing their balance. The phoenix glowed like a second sun. My bamboo stood small, quiet. I touched it lightly, tracing the thread with a fingertip.
A steward approached, bowing low. "Princess, His Majesty has expressed interest in viewing the lanterns this evening, before the procession."
My heart lurched. "This evening?"
"Yes, Princess. A private review."
I nodded, though my pulse hammered in my ears. Tonight. Not tomorrow. Tonight the Emperor would see. Tonight the first judgment would fall.
And suddenly, the mistakes in my stitching no longer looked deliberate. They looked like mistakes.
I wanted to tear the lantern apart. Start again. Scream. Instead, I smiled faintly at the steward and said, "It is ready."
He bowed again and left.
My hands shook so badly I had to clench them together. Jiu'er touched my arm gently. "It will be enough," she whispered.
I didn't believe her.
Not yet.
---
And the day went on.